


nursing on a poison

by emmyeccentric



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Other, dark!Bedelia, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmyeccentric/pseuds/emmyeccentric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's amazing how sating the taste of blood can be, how powerful it makes one feel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	nursing on a poison

**Author's Note:**

> so emperorirene made [this](http://emmyeccentric.tumblr.com/post/104297617481/emperorirene-personal-fantasies-3) gifset and i nearly died.
> 
> bastardization by me.

“What can’t _you_ repress Hannibal?” she asks one day during their sessions, her words an odd mixture of iciness and earnestness, as they often are.

“There is something you’re holding back, something rancorous.” Platinum hair brushes her shoulder as her head adopts an animalistic tilt. “Your poise and airs betray you, Hannibal.”

He swallows, eyes flickering wide for a short moment.

“There is something that has festered inside me for long time. Mischa’s ghost follows me wherever I go.”

Bedelia’s eyes flutter. “Have you the desire to avenge her?”

“I’d be dishonest if I said violent thoughts never crossed my mind,” he says, lips pursed.

Her smirk is a tangible vote of affirmation.

* * *

“In many cultures, consumption of flesh is seen as a means of transcendence; absorbing the strength or wisdom of someone else via ingestion, in order to better one’s self,” she delivers coolly.

“My sister was a child. She had no strength; she had no wisdom. The gulags turned them into beasts.” He looks at his manicured hand apathetically.

“It’s quite interesting what a human will turn to in desperate times, physically. But what I find even more remarkable is what a human would do to sate his soul, to snuff the rage,” she pauses, “…festering within him. Those ‘violent thoughts’, do you think their fruition would satisfy you?”

He shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“It’s completely justified to want to destroy the flesh of those destroyed your sister’s. What do you think of, when you remember those men?”

“The uncouthness, the grotesqueness of some people in this city, even my patients, serves as more than a reminder; I see their faces on every rude individual I encounter. I hear the vulgar jokes; I smell the foul breath. My good faith in humanity—it’s been demeaning since the day they killed her. Frankly, I’m not sure it was there to begin with.”

“The rude often lack implicit judgment and filtering mechanisms. They showcase people for what they really are, despite any convictions.”

“Pigs,” he nearly whispers.

“I agree,” she states succinctly, and his jaw remains set. She glances at her watch, indicating the session is over.

* * *

“I have found myself projecting more and more. With every curse, or obnoxious bout of laughter, something becomes ignited with me. Memories of the Soviets are becoming more than just—“

“Hannibal, have you any fluid-borne illnesses? HIV, Hepatitis?”, she interrupts, voice lackadaisical as she fiddles with the rose-shaped brooch on her lapel. “Oh I’m sorry, did I interrupt you? How very rude of me,” she all but hisses.

“Yes, and no, I’m not ill,” he mutters, a growl edging his voice. She stands, brooch in hand, and stalks her way to where he sits.

“Did I upset you with my impoliteness?” Her face is relaxed, but in her eyes there is something tense and ready to snap. He says nothing, but the unconscious grinding of his jaw is answer enough. She grabs his hand, and gasps at the sting as the needle-point of her brooch burrows into his flesh. A red drop of blood blooms from his finger, very much resembling the rose-like accessory responsible. “Focus on your anger, Hannibal, harness it, until it becomes unbearable.” She grabs his wounded finger, and to his surprise, licks it clean. Her eyes close as she savors the taste, and smiles weakly. When she pulls back her eyes are dark, the blue of them completely occluded.

“Do you wish to avenge her death? Eliminate all the foulness that surrounds you?” she quirks a brow, then pricks her own finger and offers it to him. “It’s amazing how sating the taste of blood can be, how powerful it makes one feel.” He takes her pale, thin, digit into his mouth, and revels in the coppery taste that complements the honey-vanilla scent of her skin so well.

* * *

His first kill in Baltimore is the second of his entire life, preceded only by an insulting butcher in his uncle’s estate. However, it is messier, and more inconvenient. But the former surgeon has an innate finesse for the act. The coarse tea-shop owner makes a lovely roulade.

Dr. Du Maurier was right; it does quell his rage, but the hunger becomes renewed with each succulent morsel. However, it’s a craving Hannibal is happy to oblige.

It’s during one of Dr. Lecter’s sessions with her that a promising opportunity arises.

“I warn you, I may be in breach of confidentiality, but I am in need of your assistance,” she says tersely. Hannibal’s brows knit in curiosity.

“Shouldn’t you be the one rationing guidance, Doctor?” the corner of his mouth draws up.

“I believe your talents may be advantageous in the situation,” she clears her throat, “One of my patients has seemed to develop an unhealthy attachment to his younger stepsister. She’s 11. He often has sexual thoughts of her, and finds it hard to restrain himself from acting upon them. I was going to call the police, but I think you and I both know of a more finite solution.”

He nods. “I’ll take your suggestion into consideration.”

2 weeks later, Bedelia invites Hannibal to her residence for a meal of homemade Ciambotta Napoletana with a 2005 Sauvignon Blanc.

* * *

For almost two years, it becomes a game, a kind of twisted Red Rover that transforms referrals into a quenching of their unmatched bloodlust.

Until one day, he makes a surprise visit to her practice for the simple task of cutting off a lecherous man’s tongue.

The blood splatter is too widespread to clean.

The man’s wife is frantic.

The media stifles the two of them, and they have no options. Bedelia dons the fragile mask of the traumatized, and recuses herself from practice.

But the hunger is there, and Hannibal helps her through the yearnings, just as she taught him.

When Will Graham enters the picture, a new, more dangerous, more satisfying game is born.


End file.
